To Forgive
by nosocialcontrol
Summary: After Pete's death, Bovver is a mess. Cut off from the GSE, he hates himself for what he did. Can anyone help him to forgive himself?


_Note: This is a one-shot that just popped into my head; this is the first draft so it's not that great but feedback would be lovely, peoples! =) Annnnd, I might possibly have an idea for a sequel if anyone thinks it's worth it but we'll see..._

**To Forgive**

Bovver sat on the floor in his grubby flat looking out over the old buildings and rubbish-lined streets of East London. He was wearing nothing except a holey pair of boxers, washed out and old, but he wasn't cold despite the freezing temperature of the unheated flat.

He was numb.

He had killed his best friend. He had started the chain of events that led to Pete's death. Bovver had only wanted the Yank to fuck off back over the pond, and now he had, but at the expense of Pete's life.

Bovver despised himself for going to Millwall, for asking Tommy Hatcher's firm to get rid of the Yank. All that had achieved was the Major getting stabbed, everyone getting either nicked or injured, and Pete's death.

He let out a low moan, wrapping his arms around his hunched up body. Rocking back and forth, Bovver allowed the moan to become a howl and needed to cry. But he couldn't. He hadn't cried for over a week, since it happened. The funeral was today, but Bovver wouldn't be going.

How could he? None of the boys had spoken to him. He was an outcast, cut away from his firm like a piece of dead skin. He wouldn't be forgiven, not by them. And how could he forgive himself? He was responsible for Pete's death. He would never be able to clap him on the back and congratulate him over his latest female conquest, or talk about the football and bitch about rival firms. They would never sit in the Abbey mid-week and then stumble home drunk and regret it at work the next day and then do the same thing again that night.

After what could have been minutes or hours, Bovver climbed to his feet. The dull grey sky was slowly becoming darker as the night came closer. Bovver needed a drink.

Without caring what he wore, he pulled on a pair of jeans, still dirty and blood stained from whatever the last fight had been before Pete's death. It could have been Tottenham, Chelsea or even Manchester United. Bovver no longer cared. He pulled a hoody over his bare chest, not even noticing he had no shirt, and then he left the silent flat

Under the cover of night, Bovver trudged around the corner to the Tesco Express, going straight to the till. He asked for a large bottle of Tesco-value vodka and a pack of ten Lambert and Butlers. He dropped a twenty pound note on the counter and then left, not bothering to wait for his change.

Sitting on the park bench, Bovver had never felt so lonely. He could see a group of maybe nine or ten youths, hoods covering their faces as they kicked a ball to each other. It reminded him of his own childhood.

"Hey Bov! 'Ow are ya?" Pete's fourteen-year-old self grinned at an equally young Bovver, football under his arm as he stood on Bovver's doorstep.

The two lads high-fived each other before kicking the football to each other as they walked down the road. It was Saturday morning, bright and early. Pete's father had promised to take the two boys to their first football match, and neither boy had slept the previous night due to excitement.

When Pete and Bovver arrived outside the Abbey, they had to ask one of the men to find Pete's dad. Normally the boys would just enter the pub and hunt around for Pete's father, but something about the men standing around outside told them not to enter uninvited.

Gary Dunham was a big man, built like a boxer with the face of a bulldog. He was a hard man, the local debt-collector for people who didn't want to collect their own debts. Anyone who owed money lived in fear of Gary turning up unannounced to demand repayment.

"Alright lads, ready for the match ey?" Gary said to Pete and Bovver, his cockney accent sounding very deep to the pre-pubescent boys.

"Yes Mr Dunham." Bovver replied respectfully, to which Gary tousled his hair and laughed.

"Mr Dunham. 'Oo the 'ell are ya, lad? Mr Dunham!" Gary chuckled, clapping a large hand on each of the boys' backs as he steered them into the crowded pub.

It was the first time Bovver had drank beer, and he thought it was the most horrible thing he had ever tasted. But one look at Pete's grin and Bovver knew he wasn't going to lose face so he drank the entire pint in four long gulps, trying not to retch at the aftertaste.

Bovver was in so much trouble when he got home that night. He had drank two and a half pints of lager and was swaying when he tried to stand upright, and he was sporting a nice bruise across the bridge of his nose thanks to Pete's over-excited clapping when West Ham scored the only goal of the match.

Bovver had paid dearly for that day. His mother had hit him with a heavy saucepan when she saw the state of him, and his father had hit him with his belt when he saw that the fourteen-year-old was intoxicated.

But that had been the start of it all. From that day, Bovver and Pete both got a paper round and pocketed their dinner money each day so they could save for the football every took them at first but he kept disappearing at the end of the match. It was only years later that Pete and Bovver realised that Pete's dad was a football hooligan but by then they were both heavily involved anyway.

Even when Pete's older brother Steve started his own firm, the two boys were not allowed to join as they were too young, but Bovver would never forget the sense of thrill he got every time he saw Steve covered in bruises or with bandaged hands. They were hooked. Suddenly nothing was important unless it was about football.

Bovver smiled to himself, remembering the beating he had taken the first time he ever had a fight. But then he remembered where he was, and the smile faded from his face. He angrily opened the bottle of vodka, chugging it back like it was water. He was angry at himself for daring to smile, for daring to think about Pete before all this shit happened.

"You fucking bastard!" He muttered to himself.

"Who's a bastard?" A female voice asked and the next thing Bovver knew, a pretty woman was sitting down on the bench.

Cider in one hand and a rollie in the other, she was tall and wearing what looked like two hoodies on top of one another, dark curls cascading down over her shoulders.

Bovver was not in the mood, however, and he glared at her icily.

"Do you fucking mind?" He snapped, looking away from her to drink another mouthful of alcohol.

"I didn't realise you had to make a reservation to sit on a bench." The girl replied coolly, and then there was silence as they both sat and drank. When she finished her can of cider she dropped it to the ground, crushing it with her foot.

"It's not polite to drink when someone else has none." She said pointedly and Bovver glared at her again. But his energy waned, and he could not be bothered to argue so he passed the vodka to her. She smiled at him, a big radiant smile that lit up her face in the darkened park.

Bovver looked at this mystery woman and before he thought about it, he smiled back. And then the tears finally came, and he knew she would look after him.


End file.
